


No...

by Tiriel_35 (Fritiriel)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-29 14:52:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14475060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fritiriel/pseuds/Tiriel_35
Summary: Frodo wants the chance to be in charge, for once…





	No...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hildigard_brown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hildigard_brown/gifts).



‘No!’ Frodo finally gets out the word he has been reaching for.

Sam blinks. Excusably so, since this is not a word which normally features in their more horizontal conversations, if conversation is the right word. Exchanges, perhaps? Interjections? Certainly they tell each other many things, very loud and clear. They simply don’t need words to do so. 

‘No?’ he queries. ‘No, what? I thought you liked that!’

‘Oh, I do! Believe me, Sam, I do.’ With great resolution, Frodo wriggles out from beneath his astonished love.

‘Well, then…’ Sam reaches for him again, eager to pull Frodo back into the caress he just refused.

‘No, Sam!’

Sam’s eyes cloud over in obvious disappointment and his eager grin fades. Clearly unsure what he has done to make Frodo reject his loving just now, he takes back his hands. Other things, however, are less easily discouraged.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, turning away to hide what he cannot help. ‘I only thought…’ 

Frodo hears the hurt and frustration in his voice and realises his mistake. ‘Sam, no!’

He tugs Sam back into his arms and seizes his face to kiss him, briefly but thoroughly. ‘Idiot!’ he says, lovingly. ‘I want you, my Sam. I want you to kiss me until I can’t think. I want you to use your hands on me, and your oh-so-industrious tongue to drive me to the edge again and again before you let me tumble over. I want all of that, of course I do!’ He watches the smile blossom once more as Sam reaches out happily to fulfil his master’s wishes. ‘But not _now_!’ 

He catches Sam’s wrists and pushes him back down onto the bed, swinging himself around to straddle Sam’s legs in a way which suggests several interesting possibilities in itself.

‘Later, you mean? But we’ve only just—’

‘We have only just abandoned the tea, the toasting fork and its attendant crumpets, and even your wonderful blackcurrant jam—hmm…’ Frodo considers, then shakes his head, sighing regretfully. 

There are the sheets to think of after all. It would be neither fair nor prudent to send them to the laundry after a meeting with Sam’s use of such sweet and colourful preserves. Sam-and-blackcurrant jam would make an even more delectable teatime—indeed, an _any_ time—treat, but he fears that the fruit part might prove indelible. It seems a pity that, for some reason, Shire sheets have to be white.

‘We abandoned them,’ he resumes, with a kiss to the tip of Sam’s nose. ‘because someone—mentioning no names, but he is naked and wriggling beneath me at this very moment—’ 

He stops and swallows as the naked wriggler, presumably feeling that he ought to have a part in the conversation, interjects one that Frodo finds almost impossible to ignore—thrusting, as it does, insistently upward against his own, equally naked, belly. 

Frodo’s voice is suddenly rather hoarse as he manages to resume, ‘— _Some_ one decided that there were other things he would prefer to have for tea!’

Sam’s smile is back. ‘Mmm! So, give them to me!’

‘Now you’re just being greedy!’

‘You don’t want to give them to me?’ The pout is surely fake, but Frodo relents.

‘Weeeeell…’

‘If you don’t do something soon, Frodo Baggins, I shall take matters into my own hands…’

‘No, you won’t! That’s what I started to say before I was so rudely interrupted—’ 

At this point, Sam interrupts once more. A good many folk in the Shire would have declared this interruption to be _extremely_ rude, though that might well depend on one’s stance on nakedness. 

When eventually he manages to regain some gravitas (and the upper hand), Frodo continues, ‘It seems to me, Samwise Gamgee, that there is something unfair about all this…’ He frees a hand to wave it nebulously over them, the bed, the room.

‘This what?’

‘All this lovemaking where _you_ get to be in charge!’ 

Sam pushes up onto one elbow and kisses him so hard that Frodo emerges blinking and even unsure what day it is. ‘Right-ho, Mr Baggins!’ he says amicably. ‘I shall leave everything up to you!’

‘Well, good,’ says Frodo, voice rather uncertain as Sam lies back, closes his eyes and folds his arms across his chest. 

‘Fine. You just let me know if you need me for anything.’

‘I might,’ Frodo retorts, ‘or then again,’ he trails a sly finger along the inside of Sam’s thigh, ‘perhaps I might manage without you.’ 

He sees quite clearly that Sam is compelled to exercise a great deal of self-control. For the most part he is succeeding remarkably well, given the level of provocation. However, whilst most of him remains commendably immobile—to the point where he might even have been thought to be asleep—one _particular_ part twitches. Repeatedly.

‘I could, you know,’ he says, bending over Sam, his voice deliberately low and husky. ‘What do you think I did before you came to fill that particular gap in my life?’ He purses his lips and blows—gently, _centrally_ …

This time Frodo can almost _hear_ the restraint Sam is exercising, but once again his control is exceptional. In most areas.

A kiss to begin with, he decides—knowing how often Sam’s successful campaigns against him commence exactly there.

Sam’s lips may be soft but they are unresponsive now in a way they have not been since the first seconds of their very first kiss. A coaxing tongue fails to unseal them, and neither a gentle nibble nor a hearty suck can bring that plump lower lip out to play. It unsettles Frodo enough to look down and check that Sam is still—and yes, he most definitely is, his determination to win this test of wills clearly manifest. 

Well, there are other places to kiss and lick and bite—like the line of Sam’s jaw, the shell of his ear, the sloping curve of his neck. He nibbles tiny deep pink marks over skin already flushed to a satisfying rosy red, soothing them with puffs of warm damp breath that have those sealed lips tightening. 

Frodo grins, accepting a challenge that works both ways—not just proving to Sam that he can make him beg, but to himself that he does have the strength to resist Sam—for a while, at least—if he puts his mind to it. 

_Hmm_. The arms folded across Sam’s chest are seriously in the way now. Frodo sits back on Sam’s thighs and taps imperiously on one sun-browned hand. ‘Mr Gamgee? Would you do me the inestimable favour of removing your arms?’

‘Certainly, Mr Baggins. Where would you like me to put them?’ The words are more than polite. The deliberate direction of those hands—amazingly accurate from one whose eyes were supposed to be so tightly shut—is perhaps not quite so well-mannered. 

Frodo suddenly loses all power of speech, as his bottom is cupped possessively, Sam’s fingers questing knowledgeably in the cleft. One of them, indeed, is quite impertinently pushy—in carefully tempting circles before insinuating a minor, if nonetheless careful, entrance—followed, to Frodo’s great disappointment, by a hasty, though equally careful, exit. 

An ill-concealed grin flashes briefly across Sam’s face, as he lays his hands ostentatiously flat by his sides. ‘Perhaps this may suit you better, sir?’ he asks, his tone exuding innocence.

Frodo is within a hairsbreadth of abandoning his attempt to take control. He wants nothing more than for Sam to retrieve the small and—at times like this—ever-present bottle of oil that lurks somewhere close at hand. For him to apply a swift but liberal coat to that unmannerly digit and to press in further. To discover, as Sam does so readily, the spot that fountains liquid fire through Frodo until he can do no more than beg Sam to take him. Hard and fast or slow and intense—it matters not so long as Sam is buried deep inside him. 

‘S-Sam…’ Frodo’s voice is unsteady as he wavers between capitulation to his primary desires and an insistence on making his point. Pride is at stake here and the struggle is fierce, though the latter wins out somehow. He clears his throat and tries again. ‘Sam!’

There is no response unless Frodo counts Sam’s increasingly bland expression.

‘That was not fair!’ Still no reply, though Sam’s eyebrows raise and lower in exaggerated question. ‘You wouldn’t like it if I did that to you!’

The left eyebrow arches then, followed by the right. They descend in the same order. Sam still returns no answer, but the look of incredulity remains despite the brows at rest. 

‘Well, yes, I suppose you would like it—’ the brows offer a quick waggle of agreement ‘—so I shall not.’ The brows shoot up. ‘Not until you beg me.’ 

The brows draw together now in a frown, but Frodo will not again allow himself to be distracted from the present purpose.

‘A great deal of begging occurs in this smial,’ he says, ‘and honesty compels me to admit that the vast majority of it does not come from you.’ He decides not to dwell further on that, lest acknowledging the depths to which he will sink to get Sam to touch him— _kiss him, lick him,_ take _him_ —should, quite literally, rise up to embarrass him the next time the Mayor and his wife come to tea.

Not that Sam is unwilling to pleasure his master. Oh no. _Unwilling is a word Frodo could never associate with Samwise. Thorough, generous, teasing, lusty, indefatigable, inventive, loving, giving_ —these are all words for his Sam, and there are many, many more for which he has yet to test.

In one way or another, Frodo benefits from each one of these attributes every single day. It requires a massive effort to set them aside and concentrate on his goal here, yet somehow he manages it. He will stand firm on his decision to take charge for once—he _will_. 

_Standing_ and _firm_ are blatantly obvious here. It is the resolve that’s a bit shaky at the knees.

Well, however sneakily they got there, at least those hands now lie passive at Sam’s sides. Frodo forces himself to move on quickly, well aware that the longer this attempt continues, the more likely he is to be undone by their lightest touch. 

Of course, the mere sight of Sam laid out beneath him in a buffet of sun-gilded skin is well nigh irresistible. In self defence he closes his eyes and threads his fingers through the light tangle of hair on Sam’s chest, relishing the heat and strength beneath him. He breathes in Sam’s own distinctive scent—a blend of several herbs and fresh-cut grass over something uniquely _Sam_ —pausing to let his tongue do deliciously wicked things to each nipple in turn. 

Frodo can almost feel how much effort Sam is putting into _not_ shoving up into his mouth—the tight rise and fall of his chest betraying the gasps he is trying so hard to suppress. A hum of smug satisfaction around the current nubbin scores Frodo a tangible shiver. 

Time to move on—downward, to the alluring line where golden tan gives way to pale, soft belly. Control notwithstanding, Sam’s belly is highly sensitive to the lightest touch and Frodo knows it.

He leans, head tipped a little to one side, so that dark curls trail slowly across already heated skin, and Sam swallows audibly. A slow slide of tongue along that somehow irresistible scatter of soft kisses and gentle touches nets Frodo a further shiver—though it’s more like the ripples on a pond this time as Sam’s entire body reacts. A wriggle of tongue to his navel and Sam’s breath hisses out, his fingers digging deep into the sheet beneath him. He barely manages to catch the end of an almost soundless ‘Fr…!’ from making it into the air.

Frodo looks up and smirks, mischief in his eyes. ‘Nearly had you there!’ 

Sam’s lips fold together in resolute denial but Frodo is not fooled—white dents are glaringly obvious in the dark pink of arousal. He is, on the contrary, considerably heartened by how close Sam just came to begging. It helps him cope with his own desire to throw himself down on top of Sam and squirm and writhe and… 

No. Not today. Today he will win this contest of wills—win, and then go quite happily back to the usual order of things. 

Time to get serious. A huff of breath, a nudge of nose, a quick lick and he has Sam’s full attention. Yes indeed— _very_ full. 

Due to Sam’s skill and Frodo’s susceptibility as noted—and hence, the aforementioned begging—Frodo doesn’t often get to lay tongue to the more intimate parts of his Sam and he intends to make the most of it while he can.

His rewards for a further, long and luscious lick are a burst of pure Sam-flavour on his tongue and a definite gasp from above. He grins, laying kitten licks and tiny kisses over the shiny pink tip, tongue delving to coax out and lap up more of the pale, weeping droplets. One hand glides velvety skin down and away as Frodo begins a dedicated, rhythmic sucking…

…begins, but is destined not to complete.

Sam takes him completely by surprise, the impertinent finger returning once more, somehow already slick with their usual scented oil. 

Frodo’s mouth opens on a loud gasp and Sam takes advantage of the release to seize him by the shoulders. He hauls Frodo up into a kiss that curls his toes and shoves any thought of competition—win _or_ lose—to the very back of his mind as Sam works him with a second and then a third slippery finger. 

‘Not fair,’ Frodo pants, with as much of a wriggle as his fast-heading-for-boneless state will allow.

‘Why’s that, me dear?’ 

‘I wanted…’ His complaint trails away, for what he wanted then and what he wants now are two very different things. His hand tightens its grasp as Sam lowers him slowly down and down. In one long, leisurely slide Frodo settles where he needs to be.

‘I know what you wanted, love—but _I’m_ the one that couldn’t hold out longer, so you win anyway.’ Sam’s voice is hoarse. ‘Truth be told, you always do!’

 

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  



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